


Roll With It, Baby

by one_more_offbeat_anthem



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Athletes, Castiel/Dean Winchester First Kiss, Castiel/Dean Winchester Mutual Pining, Dean Winchester Gives Encouragement, Dean Winchester Loves The Impala, Declarations Of Love, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Hockey, Homophobia, John Winchester Being an Asshole, Led Zeppelin References, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Protective Dean Winchester, Sassy Castiel (Supernatural), Skating, Speed Skating, The Eighties, The Mixtape, gratuitous use of the mixtape as a plot device, roller skates, the 1980s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:34:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26478790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_more_offbeat_anthem/pseuds/one_more_offbeat_anthem
Summary: August 1987. Indianapolis, Indiana.The Pan-American Games are back again, and professional roller skaters Castiel Milton and Dean Winchester are supposed to be teammates--and friends. Over their six years on the US team, they’ve done their best to get along, but with Cas as a roller figure skater and Dean as a roller hockey player, they sometimes miss the mark.But something’s different this year, at their second Pan-American Games. Maybe it’s the sultry end-of-summer heat over the main stadium at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway. Maybe it’s the competition. Maybe it’s Rick Astley's recent hit single "Never Gonna Give You Up."Whatever it is, the next two weeks are going to change things…potentially forever.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 20
Kudos: 41





	1. I Like the Way You Roll

**Author's Note:**

> UPDATE: This has FANART now! made by lovemuppet here (haybibiboi on Tumblr)! it's linked below!
> 
> https://haybibiboi.tumblr.com/post/629569287437287424/fan-art-for-one-more-offbeat-anthem-s-fic-roll
> 
> SECOND UPDATE: One of my pals, lucifer_sings_in_soprano, wrote a one-shot sequel, if you wanted more of the boys skating! It's SO CUTE! Read it here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26570473
> 
> THIRD UPDATE: lovemuppet wrote a one-shot/timestamp, too! the deancas rollerskating extended universe is getting out of hand and I LOVE it. read it here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26582623
> 
> This sprang to being in a fit of listening to 80s music and thinking about roller skating (I skate—not professionally, but I can dance and have done a 5k on my skates). It’s a bit ridiculous, definitely niche, and something no one asked for—but it’s also, I hope, a ton of fun. The 1980s is my favorite decade in history, and I enjoyed a chance to dress our boys like fools and have a good time. The research for this was also really fun—it’s not 100% historically accurate, but I tried my best!
> 
> Thanks to elephino_forthehalibut for beta-ing for me, and a plethora of pals over at the profound bond discord server for giving me great ideas in terms of chapter titles, song usage, and also just letting me talk nonstop about this work. if you're 18+, join us! we're good fun! https://discord.gg/profoundbond
> 
> Content warning: listed as teen for swearing and mentions of sex. Includes mild references to abusive parents, homophobia, the foster care system, the AIDS crisis, and one usage of the f-slur. 
> 
> Also! If you liked this/want some vibes, I made a playlist of all the songs used/mentioned in this fic, to help you vibe. Here it is! https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1nGekBDQ2ek0SLj1c5gwTq?si=vo9XfIA2RYG6u7bUMAv-yA

**August 5, 1987 (two days before the games)** ****

**Dean** ****

Dean rolled out of bed with a _thunk_ at the sound of his alarm clock radio blaring _Livin’ on a Prayer._

_We gotta hold on, to what we got! It doesn’t make a difference if we make it or not! We got each other, and that’s a lot, for love——_

“Oh, fuck off,” Dean muttered, smashing the button on top to turn it off. He could smell bacon cooking in the kitchen—probably his brother, Sam, who was apartment sitting for him during the Pan-American Games…which were in two days.

“Double fuck,” Dean swore, stamping into the kitchen, “Hey, Sammy.”

“Someone’s in a crummy mood this morning,” his younger brother commented, sweeping his hair out of his eyes (if only he would let Dean give him a haircut).

“Gonna be late to practice."

“What’s Coach gonna do?”

Dean poured himself a cup of coffee, “He’ll live. I’m the best forward the roller hockey team’s got—and we’re gonna need it, if we want to medal.”

“You’re also modest.”

Dean took a gulp of his coffee, “And?”

“And nothing.”

“Hm.” Dean snagged some bacon and toast from the stove and headed back to his room to get dressed.

Fifteen minutes later, he swung his car (a 1967 Chevy Impala that everyone on the team persisted in making fun of) into the Albuquerque Sportsplex lot. He knew that the loud engine of the Impala would immediate alert everyone to his presence, but screw that noise. He was only ten minutes late. Who would mind?

“You’re ten minutes late.”

“Good morning to you too, Milton. Do you always sleep with a stick up your ass?” Dean asked. Cas just rolled his eyes and stalked away, roller-skates in his hand.

Castiel Milton (or, as everyone on the team called him, Cas) was the most infuriatingly attractive person Dean had ever met—in terms of him being both infuriating and attractive. Cas was a stickler for following the rules, was an absolute beast at roller figure skating (he had dominated the long program event at the 1983 games), and he had perpetually tousled black hair, vibrant blue eyes that nearly had their own gravitational pull, and…

Dean stopped his mental description of Cas there. He was about to have to get into his practice uniform, and there were some things he _didn’t_ need showing.

“Someone’s late,” Robert Singer, one of the roller hockey goalies said, striding past Dean, “Don’t let Coach see you.”

Dean rolled his eyes.

This day could not end any sooner.

**************************************************

**August 6, 1987 (one day before the games)**

**Castiel** ****

“Nothing short of—Gabe, give me duffel back!”

“Or what, Cassie?”

“Or I’ll kill you.” Cas narrowed his eyes, his eyebrows slanting inwards, “Seriously, I can’t be late. The shuttles to the airport are leaving at nine am sharp.”

“Oh,” his older brother teased, “And if you’re late, Dean Winchester will never you let you hear the end of it?”

Cas elected to ignore Gabe, “Please give it back.”

“Fine. But check to make sure you got everything. I don’t want any panicked phone calls from Indianapolis while I’m trying to relax without you for two weeks.”

Cas rummaged through his suitcase and duffel, “Skates…backup skates….fix kit…extra bolts…practice clothes….short program costume….long program costume…..regular clothes…”

“Underwear?” Gabe asked.

“Duh.”

Gabe slapped Cas on the back, “You’re gonna do great, buddy. You took bronze in 1983, and you’ve grown so much since then.”

“Yeah….” Cas sighed, “I just hope the injury doesn’t act up.”

“Cas, that was three years ago.”

“And?”

“And I want you to stop worrying about it. Now, let’s get in the car, I thought you didn’t want to be late.”

Later, at the Sportsplex, as Gabe’s truck sped away, a voice behind Cas said, “Nice pimpmobile, Milton.”

“It’s a Lincoln Continental, not a ‘pimpmobile.’”

“Even better, air-quotes. I know what kind of car it is—but I also know that only losers drive one.” Dean was smirking at him.

“Nice of you to show up on time,” Cas replied, “Finally learned how to actually wake up to your alarm?”

“Ha.”

Cas had never quite gotten a handle on Dean. Even though they were both now, after six years, considered veterans on the team (the only one who had been around longer was Jo Harvelle, one of their inline speed skaters), Dean had always seemed brash to him, like the anthesis of someone who would dedicate their life to roller skating. He was all leather jackets, dirty flannels, blaring rock music from the speakers of his insufferably loud Impala that he persisted in calling Baby….

At least he wasn’t a figure skater like Cas. If Dean was in one of those sparkly get-ups, paired with his ocean of freckles and his (indescribable) green eyes…it would have been too much. The hockey uniform was _enough_ on its own.

And it wasn’t like they were enemies.

Right?

“Okay,” Coach Lafitte said, coming in front of them, “For those of you who were at the last games, you already know how this works. For the newbies, welcome to the party. I expect the US roller skating team to be on their _best_ behavior. No shenanigans. No sleeping with people on the other teams.”

“Can we sleep with people on this team?” Dean muttered, and Cas elbowed him to shut him up, earning another smirk.

“You all need to make sure you show up to things _on time_ , I’m not your mother, I won’t babysit you. And take care of yourselves. We don’t want any injuries, okay?”

There was a chorus of nods, and then they were all piling into the shuttles. Cas ended up wedged into the window on the back row next to Dean, who was fiddling with his walkman.

“Seriously?” Cas grumbled, “It’s less than thirty minutes to the airport.”

“Well, forgive me, but my head’s not full of air, so I actually need things to occupy my time.”

“Or maybe I haven’t been hit over the head with a hockey stick, and so my brain still works.”

“Cool it, lovebirds,” the aforementioned Jo said, her curly blond ponytail whacking the seat as she turned around, “We haven’t even left Albuquerque. If this is what I have to deal with for the next two weeks…”

“Fair’s fair,” Dean shot back, “I know you’ll be griping about missing your fiancé the whole games, the least we can do is liven it up.”

Cas watched them banter for a few minutes before staring out the window. Despite the way that Jo and Dean’s abrasiveness could sometimes be off-putting, they were his closest friends. Something about being weirdos who were _really good_ at roller-skating, good enough to make a national team, and then surviving for six years on it (or seven, in Jo’s case), was bonding. Even if they all did different events.

And even if, three years ago, Cas had barely been able to roller skate again. If he listened, he could still hear the sickening crack of his ankle as he fell.

“Hey, Feathers,” Dean said, prodding him, “Who’s watching your apartment while you’re gone?”

Cas rolled his eyes at Dean’s nickname (Dean loved to mock him for being named after an “unheard of stupid angel”— _Seriously, an Angel of Thursday? What the hell is that?_ ), “My brother Gabe. Well, we live together.”

“I remember Gabe. He’s a—“

“Bartender at a nightclub.” Cas sighed, slumping down, “And he’s not even that good at it. He’s just good at picking up chicks.”

“I’d probably be better friends with him than you, honestly.”

“Well,” Cas grumbled, “You’re stuck with me.”

Two weeks of mostly non-stop Dean Winchester.

Yeah, this was gonna be the death of him.


	2. Skating Into Your Heart

**August 7, 1987 (opening ceremonies)** ****

**Dean** ****

Dean once again rolled out bed onto the floor, but he didn’t curse a blue streak out of respect for his teammates trying to sleep in the same room. He had somehow gotten saddled with Robert, Mark, and Kevin, who had spent the previous night drinking (banned) beer and getting on Dean’s last nerve. They had only been on the team for two years, and even though Dean was just twenty-seven, it made him feel old.

It wasn’t that Dean didn’t enjoy a good brew—in fact, he could drink nearly anyone under the table. But he also knew, after spending his lifetime skating and the past six years doing it pro, that drinking before a competition or game was a bad idea. So, for the next two weeks, he had sworn off the liquor—although, four days ago, he and Sam had gotten fantastically drunk and watched _Perry Mason_ reruns to tide him over.

And now, joy of joys, he was going on a run. A goddamn run. Hell had frozen over—or maybe he had used one of the phones in the main concourse of the athlete’s village to call Sammy and had been cajoled into it. And Dean had agreed to make sure that Sam would take care of Baby like he had asked.

He hadn’t wanted to brave the treadmills in the athlete’s village—there was a complicated relationship between the roller skaters and the other members of the teams (even Team USA as a whole), and so he found himself jogging idly around the sidewalks of the village, until he saw, in the green space in the center—

“Feathers!”

Cas looked up at him from where he was doing yoga in the grass and waved half-heartedly.

“Is that how you do all those weird pretzel-spins?” Dean asked, stopping in front of the other man and putting his hands on his knees.

Cas ignored his question, “How come you look tired?”

“Because I’m a hockey player, not a runner. Have you had breakfast?”

Cas shook his head.

“Well, I’m gonna do another loop, we could grab it together?” Dean asked.

Cas raised an eyebrow, “Sure?”

“Awesome.”

When Dean came around again about fifteen minutes later, Cas was laying in the grass with his eyes closed. Dean walked up and prodded him with one of his sneakers, “This doesn’t look like exercise, Milton.”

One of Cas’s eyes snapped open, “It’s called _shavasana_ —corpse pose. It’s supposed to be relaxing.” He sat up, “Less relaxing when someone’s kicking you.”

Dean offered a hand to help him up, “Oh, can it. You mostly like me.”

“When you try to be likable.”

Dean grinned, the expression on his face something he knew Sam would refer to as “shit-eating,” “Oh, I don’t have to try.”

**************************************************

**Castiel** ****

Cas was distracted.

After marveling at the fact that Dean clearly had a hollow leg to be able to eat that much food (and at how the amount of bacon Dean ate would one day lead to his untimely death), Cas had gone to the practice roller rink to get the jitters out. He hadn’t skated at all the day before, and his nerves were starting to build.

The rink was, at ten am, surprisingly semi-empty. There were a couple of other skaters working on spins in isolated corners, and so Cas decided to just take a few sweeping passes around the rink as a whole to limber himself up. Stretching and precision was key, especially with something that had such a propensity of danger. Cas smiled to himself as he remembered learning how to do his first spin when he was eleven—nearly fifteen years ago now. He had fallen a _lot_.

Personally, though, Cas thought that some of the other roller skating events were way more dangerous. In figure skating, he had a set routine that he would learn and then do at every competition for the year. Well, he had two programs—short and long—but they were still set. In hockey, where Dean was, or speed skating, for Jo, things were unpredictable and you were actively going head-to-head with your competitors.

And there was nothing that stressed Cas out more than things that were unpredictable.

Which was why, when he finished his practice (he had gone through the toughest spins in his routine, and hadn’t fallen), he ignored the glares from the Bolivian team members (they probably remembered the regional contests a few months ago where he had wiped the floor with them) and headed back to his room to shower.

There were only six roller figure skaters on the US team, and two of them were a pair skating team, so he was sharing with three other guys. It wouldn’t have been so bad (Dean spent all of breakfast complaining about his roommates, but Cas thought that was mostly his fault for playing roller hockey), sans the fact that the pair skaters had a burgeoning relationship and had decided that having “fun” in the shared room was a great idea.

He had not slept well.

(He was hoping they had stayed out of the shower.)

Opening ceremonies were in three hours.

**************************************************

**Dean** ****

His whole life, Dean had dreamed of coming to the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, and now it was happening. Granted, he wasn’t racing a car (he had gotten kind of attached to roller skating, clearly), but he was walking along with the rest of Team USA around the track. At the front was one of the 100-meter sprinters or whatever, carrying the flag, and the roller team was at the back, but it didn’t matter. One, he was _here_. Two, he had endured enough teasing from the ranks of gymnasts, rifle team members, divers, and so on at the last games that it didn’t bother him. He had _his_ team, and it wasn’t Team USA, it was an arguably rag-tag bunch of American roller skaters.

Jo elbowed him, nearly shouting to be heard over the crowd and the announcers reading out the countries, “Can’t believe this is the end.”

“What do you mean?” Dean asked, “We’re on day one!”

“Dean-o…” she sighed, “I’m telling you now, so you can’t get mad—I’m retiring before the next games.”

“No!”

“Look, I talked to Coach, and I’m staying on the team for two more years, but then I’m retiring.”

Dean sighed. Jo was right—he was upset. Almost all of the people from when he had started with USA Rollersports were gone. It was going to be just him and Cas now.

“Like I said,” she shouted, “Two more years. And it won’t be so bad. Let’s enjoy the time we’ve got.”

 _Let’s_.

Without thinking, Dean glanced back at Cas, who was smiling and waving at the crowd, along with the rest of the figure skaters.

_How long can you know someone without really knowing them?_

There would be fireworks later, that would light up everyone’s faces and make them grin, and they would all be worth it, every last bit.


	3. Let the Good Times Roll

**August 8, 1987 (day one of the games)** ****

**Castiel** ****

Cas didn’t expect the door to open when he knocked on it tentatively at midnight, but it did. Dean stared at him, yawning in flannel pajama bottoms and a Led Zeppelin t-shirt.

“What’s up, Cas?” He asked, rubbing his eyes, “Isn’t it a little late for a lamebrain like you to be awake?”

“Ha. I can’t sleep…..I uh, can’t sleep in my room,” he scrambled to explain.

Dean raised an eyebrow knowingly, “Ruby and Chris busy getting it on?”

“You know it.”

“Well, c’mon in, then,” he gestured to the room (which was somehow a complete mess, after barely a day), “The young’uns are out drinking and who knows when they’ll be back.”

“But you’re not?” Cas asked, “I thought you loved to party.”

“Not before competitions….” Dean sighed, “Coach Lafitte has been pretty chill with us just doing our best and not medalling, but after barely missing out on the bronze medal at the last games, but Coach Turner—“ Cas knew that was the roller hockey-specific coach, “—Has been on our asses about it. He wants us to at least medal, get silver or gold if we can.”

“Do you think it’s possible?” Cas asked.

Dean shut the door behind him before flopping onto what Cas presumed to be his bed, “Maybe. Not sure the kiddos are taking it seriously enough.”

“They’re like…four years younger than you.”

“Some of them are five,” Dean countered, “Like, Robert’s twenty-two.”

“I keep forgetting you’re a year older than me.”

“And it _shows_ ,” Dean jabbed, but he was grinning, “You’re a kid, too.”

“And you aren’t?”

“Have your balls even dropped?”

Cas grimaced, “That insult sucked, even for you.”

“I know,” Dean said, “It’s late, I start dropping off in conversational quality.”

“You possessed any of that to begin with?”

“Oh, fuck you.”

Cas knew Dean meant it teasingly, but it still made him redden slightly to hear. He settled for glaring at the other man.

“Anyways,” Dean continued, “You’re welcome to sleep in here if you want. I doubt any of them will be back before morning—and if they are, they probably won’t sleep here.”

******************************************************

**Dean**

Dean rolled over with a groan to the sound of his alarm clock. He smashed the button to turn it off and stared at the ceiling.

“You sleep in,” a voice said, and Dean sat up, nearly falling out of the bed, before realizing that, standing in front of him, with the most admirable bed-head he’d ever seen (he would call it sex hair, if he didn’t know better), was Cas.

“It’s literally six am,” Dean replied, “Fuck off.”

“Sounds like someone needs coffee.”

Dean flipped Cas off as he walked past, heading to start the shitty coffeemaker in the room’s kitchenette.

“You mind if I take a shower?” Cas asked, and Dean grunted noncommittally.

He was more fully awake when, about ten minutes later, Cas stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in just a towel. Dean had seen Cas’s body (wow, that sounded creepy) before, but it was usually covered in spandex (Dean loved to mock the figure skaters’s costumes), so it was a shock to see the defined muscles of his chest, back, and legs in person.

“Uh,” Cas said sheepishly, “I didn’t think this through…I only have my pajamas.”

“You can borrow some of my clothes,” Dean said, gesturing to his suitcase, “I have some extras. And I know where you live if you don’t give them back.”

“How do you know where I live?” Cas glanced up at him from where he was now standing in front of Dean’s suitcase.

“Team roster, dipshit.”

“Of course.”

Once Cas had retreated back to the bathroom, Dean frantically gulped some coffee to calm himself down. This was _fine._ Everything was _fine_. His teammate/friend/sort-of rival was really hot and that was _fine_.

Oh.

Now said teammate/friend/sort-of rival was wearing his clothes.

(This wasn’t fine.)

He decided he would work it out with a warm-up skate session before the team practice. They had the roller hockey practice rink reserved for an hour, which the team was gonna more than need (Dean knew half of the guys would be hung-over, and he really wanted to nail Robert in the head with a hockey puck), but first, he needed to stretch, and get sex-hair, Ramones t-shirt wearing Cas out of his brain.

He was so _screwed._

Dean took a few laps around the rink. He could see some people from other teams doing the same. There was an understood language of nodding idly as you passed someone, all skating in the same direction, taking a wide birth around skaters.

As was the custom at competitions where all the skating events met, there were several rinks—the main practice rink, the figure skating practice rink, the hockey practice rink, the inline speed skating practice rink, and then, of course, the main event rinks. They all used the same two rinks for those—they got specially taped up for inline speed skating events, which usually took place only over one or two days.

(The speed skaters wore helmets, and so did the hockey players, but not the figure skaters—Dean chuckled at the mental image of Cas figure skating in his costume and Dean’s hockey helmet, before attempting to toss the idea out of his head.)

At home, Dean would warm-up (when he remembered to get to the Sportsplex on time) with his Walkman, blaring either Led Zeppelin or Metallica. Here, though, a cycle of top hits played— _Owner of a Lonely Heart_ by Yes, _Kiss_ by Prince, _Hold Me Now_ by the Thompson Twins—the kind of stuff Sam liked to play on the radio when they were cooking dinner at the apartment.

It wasn’t so bad.

 _This_ wasn’t so bad.

Despite the fact that the team practice was frustrating and Dean walked away from it sweaty and craving murder, he loved it. He couldn’t figure out how Jo was going to just give all of this up. Of course, he was gonna have to eventually—he couldn’t roller skate forever—but for now, he was going to act like it _would_ last forever.

He chose to take the long way back to his room in the athlete’s village, passing by the other practice rinks, and did a double-take when he realized that the guy practicing spins to the speakers blaring _You Might Think_ by The Cars was, in fact, Cas. Who was wearing shorts now—but still had on Dean’s Ramones t-shirt.

When Cas glided to a stop, he saw Dean watching.

 _You might think it’s foolish, what you put me through. You might think I’m crazy, all I want is you…._ the speakers crooned.

Dean was going to have to move to another country, _stat._

**************************************************

**Castiel**

Cas watched as Dean waved at him briefly before turning and walking away. He was suddenly self-conscious that he was still wearing Dean’s t-shirt—he honestly hadn’t thought about it.

Now, though, watching Dean’s retreating form head back towards the village, he couldn’t _stop_ thinking about it.

 _C’mon, Milton_ , he thought to himself, _no distractions, no injuries. Snap out of it._

He was going to nail these spins, and then he was going to nail prelims tomorrow.

“Hey, Cas,” Eric, one of his teammates skated up, “How’s it going?”

Cas paused to stretch, “It’s okay. I’m a little stressed out about prelims.”

“But this is your second games!”

Cas smiled tightly, “I know. But….” He gestured at his ankle, “You know how injuries go.”

Eric shuddered, “I remember when I broke my wrist last year….I could still skate but it shook me.”

Cas nodded, “You get it.”

“Don’t worry,” Eric grinned, “You’re gonna kill it. Your long program is to die for.”

“I hope all the judges live to give me good marks!”

Eric let out a bark of laughter, “You’re funny, Cas. Well, see you around!”

Eric was new to the team, had only been on it for a year and a half, but he was young and energetic, and unlike Cas, who enjoyed classical music for his routines, Mark pulled from the more modern songs—this year, his short program was to Bruce Springsteen’s _Born in the USA._

Amazing.

Nearly as “amazing” as, after having lunch, practicing his short routine in front of Coach Moore, the figure skating-specific coach, doing yoga, and having a mini-breakdown over _Raspberry Beret_ by Prince coming on the bathroom speakers while he was trying to pee, coming back to his room to find…..

Himself actually knocking on Dean’s door.

“Someone’s early,” Dean joked, “I didn’t think our date was until ten.”

“Ha, ha. Since some people we know are still having sex in my room….” Cas sighed, “Maybe they’ll get it out of their system before it’s actually time to go to bed.”

“Bed?”

“I’ve got prelims tomorrow.”

“And you’ll do great.” Dean turned away, “I got some extra cake earlier, you want some?”

“Sure?”

As Cas sat on the bed opposite Dean (all the beds were still unmade), the radio on the bedside table was gently playing a song he recognized from high school— _Yesterday Once More_ by the Carpenters. Before long, though, the song changed to something he only vaguely knew.

Dean was over by the mini fridge, getting some plates, but when he heard the song start, he crossed the room and turned it up, before turning to Cas, with one of the plastic forks as a microphone, and mouthing,

“ _I was tired of my lady, we’d been together too long….like a worn out recording, of a favorite song…_ ”

“I don’t know this song,” Cas said, “What is it?”

Dean paused and stared at him, “ _Escape_? _The Pina Colada Song_? Rupert Holmes? 1979?”

Cas shrugged.

“Sam loves this crap,” Dean said, before catching back up with the song, “ _If you like piña coladas, and getting caught in the rain, if you're not into yoga, if you have half a brain…_ ”

“Ouch,” Cas quipped.

Dean wagged a finger and kept going, “ _If you like making love at midnight, in the dunes on the cape, then I'm the love that you've looked for, write to me, and escape….”_ He danced through the guitar solo, grinning at Cas, before setting down the fork and getting back to the plates and cake.

“That sounds awfully uncomfortable,” Cas said, “Making love in sand?”

“Speaking of uncomfortable,” Dean handed him a plate, “I can understand not wanting to be around other people when they’re having sex….but you seem extra uncomfortable with the idea of Ruby and Chris. Something up?”

Cas raised an eyebrow, “Are you being nice to me?”

“It’s been known to happen.” Dean took a bite and said around it messily, “But seriously. Is this one of those never-been-kissed things? You’re not a virgin, right? Or, like, secretly in love with Ruby?”

“No! I mean, no…” Cas reddened slightly, “I mean, I’ve had sex, but it was with a girl and it wasn’t very fun…” He started stuttering, “But that was probably inexperience, you know. I’m sure it would be—“

“Wait.” Dean raised an eyebrow, “Are you—“

“Don’t say it.”

Dean lowered his voice, “Why not?”

“Because,” Cas sighed, putting his head in his hands, “I don’t want anyone to know. You know how people are about…”

“Because of the disease.”

“You can just call it AIDS, Dean.” Cas sighed, “But yes. I am. Gay, I mean. I, uh…I’ve never told anyone. I think my brother Gabe suspects, but our oldest brother Michael is kind of a dick, so….”

“No, no, it’s okay.” Suddenly, Dean looked, to Cas, kind of… _eager_? “I’m not, uh, straight either,” Dean said, clearing his throat, “Bi. Actually. Bisexual. That’s me.”

“Have you told anyone?”

“Only Sam knows.” Dean grinned, “But it’s fine! You know, just…being hated by society and all that good stuff. It’s quite fun.”

“That was sarcasm, right?” Cas tilted his head.

“Yes, Feathers, it was. Don’t worry—your secret is safe with me.”

Cas swallowed thickly, “And so is yours.”


	4. Cheap Skates

**August 9, 1987 (day 2 of the games)** ****

**Dean** ****

As Dean showered to wake himself up, there was one thought pulsing through his mind.

Well, two.

One: they needed to beat El Salvador in the first prelim match today, so that they could move onto the next round.

Two: Cas was queer.

Super-hot, incredibly annoying, secretly funny-and-maybe-not-so-bad Castiel Milton, the feature of many squashed-down fantasies over the past six years, was queer. Gay. _Into men._

(Dean was a man.)

He kept replaying Cas’s face during their conversation over the chocolate cake last night in his head. The way he had paled at first, then blushed, the ruddiness of his cheeks combining with his dark hair and vibrant blue eyes to….

Dean shook his head.

He needed to get his head in the game, so they could win the game. It was nothing that a morning run and Zeppelin’s _Physical Graffiti_ couldn’t shake.

God, he was turning into Sammy, wasn’t he?

Lucky for them, beating El Salvador was a breeze, but that put them up against Peru next, and the Peruvians were jack-hands at roller hockey. Dean practically inhaled his lunch between the two matches, going so far as to voluntarily eat vegetables.

“Did hell freeze over?” Cas asked, sliding into the place across from him, “Are you eating something besides pizza?”  
  
Dean stuck up his middle finger before swallowing, “I’m just trying to eat enough to stay alive and slam Peru into the ground.”

“Agressive.”

“How’s your prelims?”

“I’m moving onto semis in long program, short prelims aren’t til this afternoon.”

Dean grinned, even though he knew his mouth was full of food and it would gross Cas out, “You got this.”

“I still can’t believe you’re being nice to me.” Cas did his little head-tilt, and Dean thought he might perish right then and there.

“I’m always nice,” he replied, “You just haven’t been paying attention.”

“Ha.”

** ************************************************** **

**Castiel** ****

“So I take it you beat the Peruvians?”

“It was almost _too_ easy,” Dean said, “Tomorrow morning we’ve got Barbados. How they got to this round, I have no idea.”

“Someone’s cocky,” Cas said, sticking his spoon in his vanilla ice cream.

“You _should_ be cocky, making it to semis in both your events and all that.” Dean had chocolate.

They had absconded to one of the verandas in the center of the athlete’s village—Dean had come to Cas’s door before Cas could even think about visiting him, saying something about how “they could deal with this problem now instead of later.”

Plus, according to Dean, his roommates were starting to realize why drinking and roller hockey didn’t mix.

“Why didn’t we hang out like this before now?” Dean asked suddenly.

“Because you _hate_ me.”

Dean set his ice cream down, “I’ve never _hated_ you. I think you’re annoying, yeah. But I would put you up there with my closest friends. You, and Jo, and Sam.”

Cas raised an eyebrow, “Really?”

“I mean, you guys have been with me the longest at this, and I have the best banter with you. But now we’re starting to talk about our feelings and shit…s’weird.”

“Bad weird or good weird?”

“Dunno. What do you think?” He fixed those mesmerizing green eyes on Cas, who sat there, thinking, before eventually responding,

“Good.”

“That’s what I hoped.” Dean leaned his head back and gazed at the sky, “Man, thank god we do indoor events—and that it’s not as hot here as it is in Albuquerque.”

“You’re from Kansas, right?” Cas asked, “So this isn’t too far from your normal weather.”

“I guess not.” Dean shrugged, “Sometimes I miss Kansas. It’s nice to be back in the Midwest.”

“Ah, yes, the corn is so interesting,” Cas deadpanned.

“It’s _homey._ Anyways, you’re from what, New York City? Way to be toned down.”

“A suburb, actually,” Cas replied, “That’s how the most noble Milton family lives in a mansion.” He took a slurp of his ice cream, “I know I grew up lucky, and I shouldn’t be resentful, but….my parents _hate_ Gabe and I, because we struck out on our own. Michael is a banker, and meanwhile we’re ‘slumming it’ in New Mexico.”

“You’re back at it with the air quotes, dude,” Dean said, “I guess in fancy-land they don’t give you personality training.”

“Ouch.”

“Just kidding.” Dean slugged him slightly on the shoulder, “Well, if it makes you feel any better, Sam and I grew up in a foster family, so…”

“Oh…” Cas looked down at his ice cream, a pit growing in his stomach, “I’m sorry.”

“S’not your fault,” Dean said around his cone, “Mom died when I was four, Sam was a baby. Dad went….off the rails. Moved us around a lot until we were eight? That was when I started roller skating, I went to a friend’s birthday party at a rink and said I wanted to skate more, he said that only sissies roller-skated….and he was a violent man. One day I guess I crossed him too much, went to school the next day with some suspicious bruises, social workers came and took us away. We got a nice family, the Moseleys….made sure that we graduated school and let me skate and all that jazz.”

“Dean, that’s…” Cas attempted to come up with the words, “Crummy.”

“It’s alright, really. I mean, it’s not, but I’ve tried to make peace with it.” Dean paused, “You know my car?”

“Yeah?”

Dean took another bite of his ice cream, “That was my dad’s. He died when I was nineteen—Sammy was fifteen. He left it to me in his will. The only thing he ever gave me.”

“Why do you still keep it, if he sucked so much?” Cas asked, “I mean, you even call it ‘Baby.’”

Dean stared off into space, at a point that wasn’t really anywhere in particular, “He wasn’t a good man…but I remember who he was, in fits and spurts, before Mom died. And he wasn’t…he wasn’t the same as he became. He was loving, and funny, and understanding….something changed when she was gone.”

Cas could see tears pooling in Dean’s eyes, but he decided not to mention them, or say something teasing about the other guy “actually having feelings.” Eventually, Dean turned back to him, “But we live and let lie, I guess. I know there’s a lot of my father in me, in my music and my clothes and, of course, the car, but I like to hope it’s the good parts of the man. Sam won the lottery, though. He remembers less of Dad, idolized him less. He actually wanted to go to college—that’s why he moved to Albuquerque last year. He’s in law school now.”

“I remember you mentioning that…he’s twenty-three, right?”

“And the smartest damn man on the planet.” Dean grinned, “I can’t wait ’til he’s really Samuel Winchester, esquire, and I can mock him mercilessly.”

“Based on how you talk….” Cas smiled back, “I think you already mock him mercilessly.”

“Damn right.”


	5. Talk Derby to Me

**August 10, 1987 (day 3 of the games)**

**Dean** ****

Dean whacked the puck with his hockey stick, slinging it into the opposing team’s goal (in this case, Bermuda). A second later, the buzzer went off, and the other offensive members of his team gathered around him, cheering. They were moving onto the afternoon game.

He checked the score-board as he headed to the locker rooms to freshen up—it looked like they might end up against Chile next, which would be a rough match—he was secretly hoping for Haiti.

He glanced at himself in the mirror as he washed his face, sighing. He had been sleeping better so far here than he normally did (he had actually joked to Cas about it when he had spent the night, once he had recovered from his _partially naked Castiel Milton in his room_ panic, saying that maybe it was an angel watching over him that helped), but he still felt fatigued. His freckles did a good job of concealing the lines around his eyes, but he knew he looked tired.

A couple of his teammates walked past him, slapping him on the back in congratulations for scoring the winning goal. He smiled halfheartedly and eventually pulled on his jeans and a t-shirt to grab some lunch.

Dean couldn’t believe he had told Cas all that shit about his dad last night. He didn’t talk to anyone about Dad—not even Sammy. They had an unspoken agreement that John Winchester was off the table as a topic of discussion—their mother, Mary, was alright, as long as Sam didn’t ask too many questions, because if he did, Dean’s chest would clench in a weird way and he couldn’t handle it.

In the back of his mind, as he grabbed a couple of sandwiches and a soda, he wondered how Cas was doing right now, practicing. The final qualifying rounds for his events weren’t until tomorrow, and when they had run into each other at breakfast, Cas had seemed pretty stressed (although being stressed was also a primary aspect of his personality).

He had never actually seen Cas perform—only bits and pieces here and there. Although they were teammates, they were in different events that often had conflicting times, and unless it was something like the Pan-American Games, they weren’t always at the same competitions. There were a few all-roller sports competitions, but often it was just some hockey matches or whatever.

He wasn’t sure if he couldn’t emotionally handle it watching one of his performances, though, so he decided to push the idea out of his head. Anyways, Cas had never really seen him play roller hockey—which was for the best. Roller hockey was less about gracefulness and more about _not dying_.

**************************************************

**Castiel** ****

Cas was _stressed_.

Coach Moore had informed him, after his morning practice, that he, in no uncertain terms, needed to “calm the fuck down,” and so she was forcing him to take thirty minutes to do nothing.

As a result, he found himself drifting into one of the afternoon roller hockey matches, hoping it would help the time pass faster (“and no yoga either, Castiel. Don’t even try,” Coach had said).

Based on the spectators, he realized that it was USA versus….Chile? His suspicions were confirmed by the flags, the scoreboard, and the fact that he recognized most of one of the teams—including Dean.

Cas had never watched a roller hockey game—he usually only saw a snippet of a practice here and there at the Sportsplex—but he was oddly fascinated by it.

He didn’t expect roller hockey to be so…. _graceful_.

Granted, it wasn’t figure skating, by any means, but it required a certain skill, he realized, to dodge the other players and knock against each other while _on wheels_. He watched as someone passed the puck to Dean, who wove around the opposing team before neatly slinging it into the goal, causing an eruption of cheers.

Oh, right, this was Cas’s team, too. He was supposed to be cheering.

About ten minutes later, Coach Moore sat down next to him, “I see you found a way to relax.”

Cas shrugged, “Never been to a game before. It’s cool.”

“I know you’re friends with Dean Winchester,” she said.

Cas looked at her, “Coach, how does this relate? We’re both team vets, of course we’re friends.”

“You’re so afraid of falling and getting hurt again, and you do figure skating—which is hard, don’t get me wrong, I used to do it myself and I coach it now. But Dean’s never been seriously injured, and look at what he does.”

Cas did look. Dean was busy slamming into one of the Chilean players, shouldering past him.

“Maybe,” she said, “To get out of this brain funk you’re in where you’re constantly afraid you’ll fall again—you should ask him how he deals with the fear.”

“He’s not afraid,” Cas said, thinking of the way that Dean always had a biting retort for everything, how he listened to loud music and flipped people off and didn’t care.

“Or maybe he’s just better at hiding it than you are.” She shrugged, “Looks like our team is going to move onto the next round.”

“Dean told me Coach Turner really wants them to medal.”

“What coach doesn’t want their kids to medal? You’re a good guy, Cas, and a great athlete. You just need to get out of your head.”

Cas returned his attention to the game, “Right.”

**Dean** ****

“I would _never_ do yoga,” Dean said, “I don’t care how many health benefits you think it has.”

“It makes me feel calm,” Cas replied evenly, “Fresh. Prepared for the day.”

“I’m always fresh.”

“Dunno, you looked pretty sweaty earlier.”

Dean raised an eyebrow, “Earlier?”

“Oh,” Cas looked slightly uncomfortable, “I, uh, watched the end of the match against Chile.”

Dean’s other eyebrow shot up, “You _did_?”

“Coach Moore made me take a break…said I was freaking out too much.”

“Smart lady,” Dean said, taking a swig of his Pepsi, “You probably were.”

They were sitting on the balcony of Dean’s room tonight, having evaded the small party happening inside the room. Something involving spinning a bottle (“We’re too damn old for that,” Dean had told Cas) and general debauchery.

“I will say,” Dean set down the bottle on the ground next to him, “When I get back to Albuquerque…I’m gonna get absolutely toasted. Sam and I had a whiskey and westerns night before I left.”

“Whiskey and westerns?”

“Westerns—only the best genre of movie. I actually heard there’s a new western coming out next year about Billy the Kid, gonna be called _Young Guns_ or something? And it’ll have Lou Diamond Phillips. I like him. I just hope it’s accurate—most westerns are full of shit, but it’s nice to at least have a spot of realism.” Dean turned to Cas, “What movies do you watch?”

Cas shrugged, “Voluntarily? Not many…Gabe is really into black-and-white mystery movies, so we watch a lot of those.”

“Concept:” Dean spread his hands wide, “We have a movie night, when we get back. You bring some of that shit, I bring actually good films, we drink a lot, it’s awesome.”

“Are you…” Cas looked at him, “Are you suggesting we hang out outside of team stuff?”

“I mean, we might as well, since it’ll just be us soon—“

“What do you mean?”

“Shit,” Dean sighed, “I don’t know if I’m allowed to tell you. I mean, she never told me I _couldn’t_ tell you…”

“Spit it out.”

“Okay, okay! Jo told me she’s retiring before the next games.”

“Wait, _what_?” Cas’s eyebrows shot up, “Why?”

“She’s nearly thirty, she says she’s getting ‘too old’ for this.” Dean sighed, “I mean, I know that I won’t be able to skate for ever….but I’m planning to at least make it to 1991 in Havana.”

“You just want to hang out on the beach,” Cas said, “But wow……when’d she tell you?”

“During the opening ceremony, so I—“

“Couldn’t get pissed? Sounds about right.”

“Hey!” Dean glared at him, but didn’t put much energy into it, “I thought we were being nice to each other.”

“I _am_ ,” Cas said earnestly, “But you make it hard.”

“Oh, I make it—“

“Shut up.” Cas shoved him, but for a moment, Dean thought he saw Cas’s cheeks redden.

Interesting.

 _No, Winchester,_ he thought to himself, _you’re reading too much into it, calm down._

“But,” Cas said after a moment, “Yeah. That would be fun. I don’t hang out with folks much.”

“Figured.” Dean raised his Pepsi bottle, “To becoming real-life friends.”

Cas toasted him in return, and it took all of Dean’s self-control not to think about what, exactly, he could do with that _neck_ as Cas threw back a gulp of his soda.

_Dammit, Dean, get it together._


	6. Roller Skating: It's Cheaper Than Therapy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's a depiction of a panic attack in this chapter--nothing graphic, but just a head's up!

**August 11, 1987 (day 4 of the games)** ****

**Castiel** ****

Today was semis for both long of Cas’s events.

He had woken up an hour earlier than normal, thought about throwing up, didn’t throw up, and instead did yoga, ate two apples and called it breakfast, and traipsed over to the main practice rink, which he expected to be empty.

He recognized the song playing over the speakers— _I Would Die 4 U_ by Prince. Gabe had spent months cajoling him into listening to the artist, and then proceeded to mock him for becoming a fan. ****

Cas realized that someone was standing in the middle of the rink—just one person, but still. Whoever it was appeared to be a man, and he was jam-skating, just dancing on roller skates. Cas had always been jealous of people who could do that—he was a classical skater, and that was sort of it. His learning style was woefully formulaic.

Then he realized who it was, and that the person was vigorously mouthing along to the song.

“' _Cause you, I would die for you, yeah! Darling if you want me to, you, I would die for you…_ ”

It was Dean.

He was, as far as Cas could tell, totally unaware of the fact that someone (specifically, someone named Castiel Milton) was watching him, and he kept going.

“ _I'm not your lover, I’m not your friend, I am something that you'll never comprehend! No need to worry, no need to cry…._ ”

Oh shit.

 _Now_ he had spotted Cas.

Dean tossed out the rest of the chorus with bravado, “ _I'm your messiah and you're the reason why!_ ” as he skated over to the rink wall where Cas was standing.

“I didn’t know you could jam skate,” Cas said, because he couldn’t think of anything more intelligent to say.

Dean pushed his hair off his forehead, the sweat on his face somehow accentuating ( _it should be illegal,_ Cas thought, _for someone to look that hot when they’re sweaty_ ) his freckles, “That was how I got started, actually. But the rink in my hometown only had a roller hockey league, so….plus, I was never graceful enough for what you do.”

Cas shrugged, “You looked like you were having fun.”

“I was,” Dean said, before lowering his voice, “But if you tell _anyone_ I like Prince, I will fervently deny it and then kill you.”

Cas made a motion like he was zipping his lips, “Your secret is safe with me. I have to know, though….do you have a favorite Prince song?”

“This one’s alright…..but my favorite is _Raspberry Beret._ ”

“You only like that one because it’s about sex.”

Dean pretended to be appalled, “Do you really have such a low opinion of me?”

Cas rolled his eyes, “Why are you like this?”

“No, why are _you_ like this?” Dean raised an eyebrow, “Why are you up so early?”

“Nervous about semis today….I don’t compete until ten, but I thought maybe some practice could help me get the jitters out.”

“I have an idea,” Dean said, “Do your program for me.”

“No way.”

“Why not?”

“It’s….stressful?”

“You can pretend I’m not watching!” Dean said, “And no matter what, I’ll think it’s good.”

“Fine.” Cas took out his Walkman and clipped it to his waistband, “But I’ll probably screw up.”

“Nah,” Dean waved a hand, “You’re gonna kill it.”

Cas sighed, took a deep breath, and skated out onto the middle of the rink. He pressed play on his tape and realized that he probably looked hilarious, in shorts and a t-shirt, doing his program to whatever pop song was now playing over the loudspeakers.

The climax of the program was supposed to be a quad jump, something Cas had been struggling with. He had successfully landed it at all the competitions this year, but not without some serious wobbling, and yesterday during practice, he had fallen, and so as the music swelled closer and closer to that point, he began to feel his chest tighten, and then it was hard to breathe, and then….

**************************************************

**Dean** ****

“Cas!” Dean skated out onto the rink, to where Cas had suddenly fallen to the ground. He appeared to be shaking. Dean inverted his feet to slow to a stop and knelt down next to him, carefully taking off his headphones, “Cas, you okay?”

He was breathing heavily, and fast, and he wouldn’t look at Dean.

“Cas?” Dean tentatively reached out a hand and placed it on his back, “Are you okay?”

Slowly, Cas looked up at him, and then said softly, “I’m really sorry.”

“Hey….nothing to be sorry for.” Dean starting moving his hand in circles, “I’m not mad. What happened?”

“Just got—“ Cas swallowed, choking on the words, “Freaked out, I guess.”

“It’s probably a panic attack. Those are scary.”

A nod.

“And,” Dean continued, “It’s alright.”

They sat there on the floor of the rink for long enough that Dean lost track of time. He kept rubbing Cas’s back, and humming mindlessly, until, Cas tentatively sat up before softly saying, “Fuck.”

“What?”

“I’m supposed to…” Cas pointed at the clock on the wall, “I skate in two and a half hours, and I’m going to choke on the jump again, and—“

“Hey.” Dean held up a hand, “We’re gonna go get some breakfast, okay? And we’re going to take deep breaths. And talk through this.”

“Talk through it.”

Dean took Cas’s hand and pulled him to his feet, “Uh-huh. And it’ll all be fine.”

“It’ll all be fine?”

“Yes.” Dean paused, “It’ll all be fine.”

**************************************************

**Castiel**

“Thanks again,” Cas said softly, “For earlier.” They were on Dean’s balcony again, after a day of skating and competition and inhaling vast amounts of protein between those things.

“It wasn’t a big deal,” Dean said, biting into the Three Musketeers bar he had scrounged up.

“I mean,” Cas sighed, “It was for _me_ ….I was all in my brain, and now it’s out of my brain, and…”

“Where did it come from?” Dean asked, “All this anxiety?”

“I’ve always _been_ anxious,” Cas said, rooting back in his memories to his first panic attacks, to coping mechanisms and his oldest brother Michael telling him to stop being “such a girl” about everything and his parents telling him to grow a thicker skin, and then Gabe pulling him aside and telling him _fuck them, fuck all of them who think that life isn’t stressful_ , “But after I broke my ankle three years ago…everything got so much _worse_. It was all I could thinking about, falling over and over.”

“But you made it through semis today, right? You’re going onto finals in two days!”

“Yeah,” Cas gritted his teeth, “But the fear is still there, niggling. I can only conquer it enough to to do the program, and then it comes back, all at once.”

“You know,” Dean said, taking another bite of his candy bar, “Maybe conquering a little bit of the fear at a time is okay. Like, you don’t have to have it all figured out right now.”

“You mean….?”

Dean offered him the candy bar, “Don’t beat yourself up for struggling. Being able to even get through the program is a big deal, because it means you can at least hold back the fear for what, four and a half minutes? That’s impressive.”

Cas took the proffered Three Musketeers, took a bite before handing it back, “Yeah. I guess.”

“I _know_.”

**************************************************

**August 12, 1987 (day 5 of the games)** ****

**Dean** ****

“Yeah, Sammy, I’m eating vegetables. And sleeping!” Dean groaned into the phone in the main plaza of the athlete’s village, “I know, I know, you think I’m lying. But I really am being responsible! You know Cas?”

“That you never shut up complaining about?” Sam asked, “What about him?”

“We’re like….becoming real friends. We were friends before, but this is the real deal.”

“Oh?” Dean could almost hear Sam raising his eyebrow.

“I don’t want to speak too soon, but maybe we’ll hang out more once the games are over.”

“Crazy. Look, I have to go, my rice is about to boil over on the stove—“

“It’s fine. See you next week?”

“You betcha. Love you.”

“Love you too, Sammy.” Dean hung up the phone and started walking in a meandering path around the plaza. He thought he might head back to his room, but he wasn’t sure.

He’d had an off-day from matches, and so the team had several longer practices over the course of the day that Coach Turner said would “sharpen them up.” As far as Dean could tell, they were still a rag-tag bunch of losers. At least the rookies were drinking less.

He had just made it to the entrance to the athlete housing when a voice behind him said, “Dean!”

He turned, “Hey Cas, what’s up?”

“I, uh, got us some ice cream,” Cas said, his cheeks reddening slightly, “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not! C’mon, let’s go find somewhere to sit.”

There was a swelling feeling in Dean’s chest.

(He was going to elect to ignore it.)


	7. Not-So-Great "Roll" Models

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter includes homophobia and usage of the f-slur to refer to queer people, as a head's up.

**August 13, 1987 (day 6 of the games)** ****

**Castiel**

Going into the finals, Cas was nervous. _Of course_ he was nervous. But he had taken Coach Moore’s advice—he had warmed up in the morning and then decided not to obsess over his routine.

He kept repeating to himself, _Just get through the jumps. Just get through the jumps. Just get through the end of the routine_. Dean’s face floated in front of him in his imagination, all emerald eyes and freckle constellations— _Don’t beat yourself up for struggling._

Right.

This was something he could do, something he could handle.

Eventually, the skater from Brazil going before him in the morning’s long program finals finished, and it was his turn to take to the rink. He tightened his roller skates one last time before he heard the announcers call, “Castiel Milton, USA” and skated onto the floor. He could see Coach Moore and his teammates giving him a thumbs up. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and waited for his music to start.

He could do it.

He was gliding across the floor, in some sort of weird trance, until he got to the major jump.

 _Maybe conquering a little bit of the fear at a time is okay,_ Dean’s voice in the back of his head said.

Starting with this jump.

Cas stuck the landing, and right then and there, as he skated into the next portion of the program, decided that nothing else mattered. He had made it through his long program, his short program had less jumps, and he was, in his own mind, a champion.

(Then he won a gold medal in long program and a silver in short program.)

**************************************************

**Dean** ****

Dean couldn’t help but grin at the expression on Cas’s face when he ran into him on the plaza. “I heard the news!” He called across, “I’m sorry I wasn’t there!”

“You were busy kicking ass elsewhere,” Cas replied.

“Fair’s fair. Congrats, Feathers,” Dean said, clapping him on the back, “You beyond deserve this. You got past that fear and did those jumps, right?”

Cas nodded, “And I wasn’t the only one who medaled. Fourteen medals overall!”

“Holy shit,” Dean said, “That’s….crazy awesome. What do you say we grab some dinner and then head back to my room? I heard that some of the guys are pulling together a little celebration.”

“Really?” Cas fell into step beside him, “I feel like that’ll just end in weird orgy.”

“You mean us being subjected to the PDA machine that is Chris and Ruby?”

“Jesus Christ,” Cas said, “They’re the _worst_.”

“But without them,” Dean pointed out, “We might not be having this conversation. We could still be mostly hating each other.”

“I thought you said you never hated me,” Cas said innocently.

“Oh, fuck off.” But Dean could feel that he was grinning at Cas, and that Cas was grinning back.

******************************************************

**Castiel** ****

“Don’t worry,” Dean whispered, “I told them to lay off, let it be chill. We’re supposed to be celebrating!”

The room was filled with whooping as everyone exchanged congratulations to the figure skaters. Cas couldn’t help but beam. Not only had he gotten two medals, but one of them was _gold_. This was beyond his wildest dreams.

At first, the team-wide party was a raucous, undignified affair, with all of USA Rollersports crammed into one room, but eventually enough people left (some, presumably, to “party hard” with other teams) that they all settled into a circle on the floor, chatting away. Cas was drinking a root beer, and there was a warm, contented feeling pooling in his stomach as he leaned against one of the beds, his knee touching Dean’s.

The conversation turned to a mockery of Chris and Ruby’s latest escapades (and whether or not they would last), and then Robert turned to Cas, “You’re rooming with Chris, right?”

Cas took a sip of his root beer, “I am _vividly_ aware of that fact.”

There was a chorus of laughter, and then Robert continued, “I heard you stayed in our room one night to avoid them. Are you sure you weren’t—“ he waggled his eyebrows—“Up to anything else?”

Cas felt himself redden slightly, “Uh, no, haha.”

Dean glared at Robert, “Not cool, man.”

“Dean,” Cas hissed, “Drop it.”

“Oh,” Robert said, “I’m hearing conflicting stories! Do we have a loverboy on the team?”

“Dean!” Cas said again, “Let it go.”

Dean took a swig of his own soda, raised an eyebrow, and said cockily, “You wanna say that again, Robert?”

“What I’m hearing,” Robert said, while some of the others grinned, “Is that there might be _two_ faggots in the room!”

“That’s enough,” Dean said, dropping his drink and lurching towards Robert with his fist.

“Dean!” Cas cried out, “Stop!”

Some of the other team members went to pull Dean and Robert apart, and in the chaos, Cas slipped out of the room.

_He couldn’t stay here._ ****

**************************************************

**Dean**

“Cas, wait!” Dean pushed his way out of the chaos and followed Cas’s retreating form. He got to Cas’s room right as Cas was trying to close the door, and he fit his foot in, “Stop.”

Cas swung the door open, his expression angry, “Why?”

“Because I wanted you to know that I’m sorry! I was just trying to help!”

“Well,” Cas scowled further, “Your help _sucks_ , Dean. You could have just dropped it and let it be a joke.”

“He was making fun of you!” Dean replied.

“And I would have lived, but _no_ , you had to go and hit him, and now everyone probably thinks what Robert said is true. The _last_ thing I need right now is anyone knowing I’m gay, and I told you that!”

“Cas, wait—“

But the door was slammed in his face.

Dean leaned his back against the wall next to the door, and then slid down onto the ground, putting his head in his hands. He had fucked up, big-time, and he had no idea how he could fix it—or if it even _was_ fixable.


	8. Puck You

**August 14, 1987 (day 7 of the games)** ****

**Castiel** ****

Cas didn’t have anything else to do. His events were over. He did yoga in his room, on the balcony, took a shower, went to watch some of the pairs skating events. He heard from Jo, in passing at dinner, that the roller hockey team demolished Canada. They were moving closer to the finals.

He dodged Dean’s eyes at dinner, quickly went back to his room, and slept on the bathroom floor to avoid Chris and Ruby. ****

**************************************************

**August 15, 1987 (day 8 of the games)**

**Dean** ****

Dean had knocked on Cas’s door a couple times, had gone jogging to see if Cas was in the green-space doing yoga, even tried to invite some folks over for a game night, told them to bring Cas. It didn’t work.

When _I Would Die 4 U_ came on the speakers during morning practice, he nearly punched the wall.

But they beat Aruba.

******************************************************

**August 16, 1987 (day 9 of the games)** ****

**Castiel** ****

Cas knew he couldn’t avoid Dean forever, that it would be infinitely harder once they left Indianapolis. But he also thought that if talked to him, he would lose it.

He had been avoiding the rest of the team, too.

He wondered if they believed what Robert had accused him of, if Dean’s punch had confirmed their worst fears about him, Castiel.

******************************************************

**August 17, 1987 (day 10 of the games)** ****

**Dean** ****

They were moving upwards, getting closer to maybe being the in the finals. It was more than just a pipe dream now, but Dean was exhausted. He had caught Cas’s eye at breakfast, and then, when he tried to wave, had been completely ignored.

They won again.

It seemed to matter less to him, though, that Team USA was “unstoppable.”

******************************************************

**August 18, 1987 (day 11 of the games)** ****

**Castiel** ****

Cas felt like shit. He went to Jo’s prelim races, cheered her on as she blew past everyone. She clapped him on the back afterwards, while the rest of the Team USA skaters huddled, before saying, “What happened to you and Dean-o?”

“You didn’t hear about the fight?”

“Ah….” She grinned, “So that’s how Robert got that bruise.” Then she saw the look on Cas’s face and continued, “Cas….whatever’s upsetting you with Dean…he’s a good guy, but he’s sort of like a bull in a china shop. You need to talk to him.”

Cas shouldered past her. He wouldn’t talk to Dean until Dean talked to him. ****

**************************************************

**August 19, 1987 (day 12 of the games)** ****

**Dean** ****

At this point, Dean knew that Cas would probably never speak to him again. The easy rapport that they had built up over the past week, and the past six years, even, was gone, because he couldn’t keep his stupid mouth shut.

Or his fist out of other people’s faces.

He knew what he had to do. They were moving to the game that would determine who went onto the finals tomorrow, and they were matched up with Brazil, who would be hard to beat.

He’d do it tomorrow night, after the game, so that his nerves wouldn’t mess with his playing.


	9. E-Skate From Reality

**August 20, 1987 (day 13 of the games)**

**Castiel**

Cas rolled out of bed, pulling open the door at the sound of knocking, “Yes?”

“Uh…” one of the athlete village staff peered at him, holding out a small box, “This was left for you at the main desk….Mr. Milton?”

Cas nodded, feeling a little bad for snapping at the guy, “Thanks.”

“No problem!”

Cas shut the door and stared at the box. It appeared to be one of those movie theater candy boxes that had been covered in brown paper. He opened it, shaking it out onto his bed. There was a cassette tape and a folded up sheet of notebook paper. He unfolded it and started to read.

_Hey Cas, it’s Dean. Based on the way you’ve been ignoring me, you probably don’t want to hear from me. But I wanted to give you this, so I came up with a way that you would have to take it._

Cas snorted and kept reading.

_Do you remember the night of closing ceremonies at the last games, in Venezuela? It was one of the few times we’ve voluntarily hung out. I mean, we often talk at practices and team parties and stuff, but until now it’s never been just us. Anyways. We were so young then—I mean, twenty-two and twenty-three aren’t that young, but it sure felt like it, huh? I remember we talked about dreams, about what we would do if we weren’t rollerskating, and you said you’d be a beekeeper._

_I thought it was really dorky, but also sort of sweet, and as soon as I got home I made you a mixtape, and then I never gave it to you because I got scared, but now I can’t think of any other way to tell you what’s on my mind, so here’s something I’ve been meaning to give you for four years. If you hate it (or me), feel free to never speak to me again._

Cas picked up the tape and flipped it over to read the title: _Deans top 13 Zepp TRA XX._ He grimaced at the grammar, before making a split second decision to slide his practice tape out of his Walkman and put Dean’s tape in it, instead.

The only times Cas had heard Led Zeppelin was when it was blaring out of the windows of Dean’s car, so he wasn’t sure what to expect, but it wasn’t _this_. Every song, he told himself that he would stop listening after this one, he had to go to sleep, he had other things to do…but he couldn’t.

There were thirteen songs listed on the tape in Dean’s cramped and horrid handwriting, and finally the tape moved to the last one, a song called _All My Love._

_Should I fall out of love, my fire in the light_

_To chase a feather in the wind_

_Within the glow that weaves a cloak of delight_

_There moves a thread that has no end_

Cas shifted on his bed. Something about this song sounded….familiar.

_For many hours and days that pass ever soon_

_The tides have caused the flame to dim_

_At last the arm is straight, the hand to the loom_

_Is this to end or just begin?_

Yeah, he had definitely heard this song before. But where?

_All of my love, all of my love_

_All of my love to you, oh_

_All of my love, all of my love, oh_

_All of my love to you_

Oh.

When Dean had been helping Cas calm down after his panic attack, he had been humming this song.

Without even bothering to pause the tape, Cas threw his Walkman on his bed and stormed out of his room. Within minutes, he had gone down the hall to Dean’s and was pounding on the door. It swung open, and Cas started talking, “I need to talk to you about the tape, I—“

Robert raised an eyebrow at him, “Are you looking for Dean?”

Cas nodded.

“He’s in the bathroom, but…….he’s clothed. He’s just _in_ there. And, uh….Cas?”

“Yeah?” Cas said shortly.

“I’m…” Robert fiddled awkwardly with his t-shirt hem, “I’m sorry I was such a dick last week.”

“Thanks for the apology.”

“But…” Robert gestured vaguely, “He’s in the bathroom, so, uh, yeah.”

Cas raised an eyebrow and barged into the bathroom.

Dean was sitting in the bathtub in his pajamas, holding a bottle of beer and staring at the ceiling. At the sound of Cas shutting the door, he turned his head sideways.

“Oh, hey,” he said, his voice worn.

“I thought you didn’t drink during competitions,” Cas said, “Don’t you have the finals match tomorrow?”

Dean shrugged, but when Cas walked towards him, taking the bottle and setting it on the vanity, he didn’t stop him.

Cas sat on the edge of the tub, “I listened to the mixtape.”

“And?”

Cas had to refocus for a second, because Dean’s green eyes were boring into him, and then he said, “It was really nice.”

“You’re not just saying that?”

“No, I….” Cas swallowed, “I loved it. Especially the last song.”

One of Dean’s eyebrows went up, “Really?”

“Yeah.” Cas paused and then, “You’re not yanking my chain, right? Like, messing with me?”

“Hell no!” Dean leaned forward, suddenly seeming less lethargic, “I wouldn’t. I really wouldn’t. I’ve—“ he ran his hands through his hair, “Fuck. I’ve had a crush on you since the day you joined the team, dude.”

Cas’s eyebrows shot up, “No way.”

“ _Way._ I just didn’t say anything because of the whole, well…..thing about queer people, and you were almost scarily hot, and—“

“Stop,” Cas was trying not to laugh, “You think I’m ‘scarily hot’?”

“Well, not when you use air-quotes. And you annoyed the hell out of me, but I enjoyed annoying you back. And so I just decided that’s how it would have to be.”

“Well,” Cas shrugged, “You are annoying. But it doesn’t have to only be that way.”

Dean sighed, “Yeah, it does. I’m kind of a screw-up. Every time I try to help, I just…” he grabbed at the air with his hands, “Mess things up. I mean, I should have just kept my cool when the guys were teasing you, but I got so mad…I’m not really worthy.”

Cas was planning on opening his mouth to tell Dean that he was _wrong_ , but before his brain could fully catch up with his plans, he found himself seizing Dean by the collar of his t-shirt and kissing him fiercely. It wasn’t an elegant kiss—too many teeth and Dean tasted like beer and Cas knew his breath wasn’t much better—but it didn’t really matter because Dean was _kissing him back_ , and…

Cas pulled away, “Sorry….”

“Don’t be sorry,” Dean said, a smile starting to bloom across his features, “Do it again.”

Cas complied.


	10. Skate Fast, Hit Hard

**August 21, 1987 (day 14 of the games)** ****

**Dean**

Dean felt like his heart was going to explode.

He and Cas had ended up (after a fair amount of, well, making out in the bathtub) escaping his room and taking a walk around the athlete’s village.

Dean knew that pretty much all of the skating team was in the stands, since nearly everyone else’s events were over now. He also knew he should care about beating Argentina, but he didn’t.

Coach Turner had said much the same to the team before the match. He was shocked that they were medalling at all, and he was shocked even more when they pounded Brazil into the ground, meaning that Brazil would get bronze, and the lowest they could get was silver. After not placing at all at the previous games, the team was glad just to be here.

And Argentina was killer good.

Dean looked up into the stands as he and his teammates skated out onto the rink in their red, white, and blue jerseys, and then he looked up and saw Cas and Jo waving at him, and he turned his attention back to the rink with a smile on his face.

He’d already won the whole damn games.

**************************************************

**Castiel**

It was only the second game of roller hockey that Cas had ever seen, and the first full one, but he was in love with it. He did take some secret joy in Robert getting fouled by a member of the Argentinian team, because it might leave another bruise on his face, but that was his business and no one else’s.

When Argentina won, Team USA almost didn’t care. A silver medal, after a poor showing at the last games, was like winning the lottery, and it felt good to have something to celebrate again.

“Okay,” Jo said idly as she, Cas, and a very sweaty Dean wrapped in an American flag walked to the dining facilities in the athlete’s village, “I propose the party be held in my room this time, and we figure out a way of preventing dicks like Robert from entering.”

Cas exchanged glances with Dean—they hadn’t told Jo the full story about what had happened with Robert—and Dean finally said, “You know what, that doesn’t sound so bad. Your room is probably way cleaner than mine, anyways.”

“I pity the fool who has to pack that room up. Oh wait, that fool is you!” Jo taunted.

“That’s gonna leave a mark,” Cas quipped.

“Already left one on Robert, so what does it matter?”

“Dean!” But all three of them were howling with laughter as they headed to grab pizza and drinks. It was going to be a good night.

** ************************************************** **

**August 22, 1987 (day 15 of the games)**

**Dean** ****

Jo won a gold medal in three inline speed skating events, because of course she did, and then, when a reporter asked her how it felt to have won the medals, she announced her retirement, and Dean thought he was going to cry.

He did, later, when he and Cas were stargazing with her, because it felt like something was _ending_ , something he couldn’t get back, but Jo just smiled and told him that all good things had to come to an end eventually.

“Let’s make the most of the next two years,” she said to them, “And then you guys can bring it on home in Havana without me. You don’t need me to win.”

“But you’re our _friend_ ,” Cas said earnestly. He was holding Dean’s hand and periodically rubbing the back of it with his thumb. Dean hiccuped in agreement.

“And I’ll still be your friend, on the rink or not,” she replied, “You guys are weird, but cool, and I wouldn’t have made it through the last seven years without someone to pester.”

Eventually, Dean got control of himself enough to pester Jo more, and then things felt normal, and right, and he knew that this night was going to be something he was going to remember for a long time.

** ************************************************** **

**August 23, 1987 (closing ceremonies)** ****

**Castiel** ****

After the fireworks and the speeches and the athlete marches and the national anthems and the deafening cheer as it was announced that Team USA had racked up the most medals at the games (followed by Cuba and Canada), (and after Coach Lafitte telling him he was proud of all of them and maybe even shedding a tear) Cas found Dean and himself back on Dean’s balcony, this time with beers instead of Pepsi, and he was leaning his head on Dean’s shoulder, and the stars were _perfect_. They had cracked the door open and set the radio on the balcony—Cas had cajoled Dean into a “top hits of 1987” station.

“Why didn’t we do this earlier?” Dean asked, “Because this is great. But, for the record,” he leaned sideways to kiss Cas’s forehead, “You still bug the hell out of me.”

“Ditto.”

“Good.”

“Hey,” Cas said after a few moments, lifting his head up to properly look at Dean, “I had idea.”

Dean took a swig of his beer, “Shoot.”

“We should go on a date when we get back to Albuquerque.”

Dean looked down, “We can’t…..you know how people are about…two guys dating and stuff.”

Cas lowered his voice, “But we _can_. You know how I said my brother Gabe works at some kind of club?”

“Uh-huh?”

“He works at a gay bar.”

Dean’s head snapped up, “ _No fucking way_.”

“Yes fucking way.” Cas grinned, “You in?”

“If you’re involved? You don’t even have to ask—I’ll always come.”

“You’ll always—?“

Dean shoved him, “Shut up. We have yet to test any of _those_ theories.”

“That’s another date night idea,” Cas whispered, moving so that his lips brushed Dean’s neck as he spoke, “But maybe not one that should happen in public.”

“You little fucker.” But Dean was grinning.

“Hey,” Cas said, “You know this song?”

“ _We’re no strangers to love, you know the rules and so do I. I know commitment’s what I’m thinking of, you wouldn’t get this from any other guy!”_ Rick Astley’s voice crooned out of the radio.

“Cas, I swear to god, if you start singing along….”

Cas grinned, “ _Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down, never gonna run around and—_ mmf! _”_

(Dean had resorted to kissing him to shut him up.)

(It worked.)


	11. Epilogue

**August 30, 1991 (four years later)** ****

**Dean**

Dean unfolded the USA Rollersports monthly newsletter as he took a sip of his coffee, flattening it out on the kitchen table.

_TWO USA ROLLERSPORTS CHAMPIONS ANNOUNCE RETIREMENT_

_On August 20, two days after the closing ceremonies of the 1991 Pan-American Games in Havana, Cuba, veteran roller-skaters Dean Winchester and Castiel Milton announced their retirements. Both joined the team in 1981, and after ten years, have had quite the productive careers._

_Winchester played forward for the roller hockey team, and helped bring Team USA the silver at the 1987 games and the bronze a few weeks ago in Havana. He has also led the team to victory at numerous American and continental contests._

_Milton competed as a roller figure skater. He got two bronze medals at the 1983 games, a gold and a silver medal at the 1987 games, and two golds in Havana. Additionally, he has medaled numerous times in other competitions._

_Both have said that the 1992 American Rollersports Open, to be held in January in Boulder, Colorado, will be their last competition. When asked what they plan to do with their retirements, Milton said he wants to become a coach and possibly bee-keep. Winchester was unsure of his plans, but said that he certainly wasn’t going to stop skating._

_Both have inspired the new generation of younger skaters, and we hope their retirements are enjoyable!_

“Hm,” Cas said, putting his chin on Dean’s shoulder as he stood behind his chair, “They left out the part where, in retirement, I’ll never get any peace again cuz I’ll be stuck with you.”

“Speak for yourself,” Dean replied, “Who does the cooking in this house?”

Cas pressed a kiss to Dean’s cheek before going to sit in his own chair, “Fair enough. What do you want to do with our day off?”

“Whatever you want, sweetheart. Whatever you want.”


End file.
